


5:00 AM

by everybodylies



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Post-Series, Reunion, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2015, and the legendary King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot rises from the Lake of Avalon to lead Albion in the time of its greatest need. And Merlin? Well... Merlin's late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5:00 AM

"Awake, King Arthur." Arthur feels a soft hand on his shoulder.

See, Merlin? _That's_ how you wake a king. With care and respect. Not by ripping the curtains open like a barbarian and screeching "Rise and shine—

"Really, King Arthur, you must rise."

"Alright, alright, I'm getting up," Arthur groans.

He opens his eyes to find his face buried in the softest grass he's ever felt in his entire life, but eventually, he forces himself to stand up. The person who'd woken him turns out to be a young girl with long dark hair and eyes like a cat's.

"You look familiar," he says slowly. "Have we ever met?"

The girl raises her eyebrows, surprised. "My name's Freya. You stabbed me once."

Arthur shirks back in horror. "I stabbed you? When…? I don't remem… I'm, uh, _so_ sorry, um…"

Freya only shrugs. "Well, I was in the form of a bloodthirsty bastet at the time. I don't blame you. Much."

So sorcery, then. Normally, right about now, he'd draw his sword and start screaming about the evils of magic, but he's surprised to find that he's completely calm. And it's all Merlin's fault, he figures.

"Well, nevertheless, I apologize. It's not polite to go around stabbing people."

Freya pauses for a moment, and then smiles. "Thanks."

Arthur takes a good look at his surroundings. He's standing on a small island in the middle of a lake. There's a large stone structure behind him, and far in front of him, across the lake, is land. To his left, the dim sun is only beginning to peek over the horizon. Well, it's not heaven, he's pretty sure.

"Didn't I die?" he asks.

"Yes."

"So why am I here? How am I alive?"

"You are the Once and Future King, Arthur Pendragon," Freya explains. "You died shortly after the Battle of Camlann, but it was prophesied that you would rise again when it is Albion's greatest time of need. And that time has come."

Arthur crosses his arms with an irritable "hmph." Well, apparently no one had bothered to tell _him_ about that prophecy. It would have been nice to know in advance that his afterlife would consist of more trials and tribulations instead of the opportunity to see all of his loved ones again.

But the thing is, he is Arthur Pendragon, and Arthur Pendragon always rises to his duty, in the same way that the cream always rises to the top. Thus, his bitterness quickly disappears, and already, he begins thinking strategically. Information. He needs information.

"Why is it Albion's time of need? What is happening?"

"I'm not sure," Freya admits. "The prophecies aren't very specific. All I know is that today was the day you were supposed to wake up. Though I'm sure you'll recognize it when you see it. It's not called 'Albion's greatest time of need' for nothing."

So things are going to get pretty bad. Good. He'd be offended if they'd woken him up for anything less.

"How long has it been?" he asks next.

"Almost fifteen hundred years have passed since your death."

Fifteen hundred years? That's… that's a long time. He can't even begin to imagine what the world looks like now. More roads, he thinks dully. Tougher armor, sharper swords, perhaps.

"Things are going to be so different," he moans. "How will I—"

"Don't worry. Merlin will be there to help you adjust."

" _Merlin_? What's he got to do with all this?"

"Believe it or not, your destiny has been intertwined with his since day one. You will not be able to save Albion without him."

He'd never thought Merlin was that important. Of course, he was important to _Arthur_ , but in the grand scheme of things… Merlin was just a manservant. An exceptionally bad manservant, maybe, but just a manservant, nonetheless. And then Arthur remembers the magic. He remembers the way Merlin had taken out rows upon rows of Morgana's men without even breaking a sweat. He remembers Gaius bending down to his ear, voice full of almost fearful awe, calling Merlin the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth.

Arthur's not so sure where he stands anymore. But he's glad Merlin will be there, perhaps as a manservant, perhaps as a partner. He doesn't really care which at this point.

Freya glances at a strange device on her wrist. "Is there anything else? We really should get going."

Arthur is about to shake his head before he realizes with horror that all he's wearing is a plain shirt and pair of breeches.

"Wait, where is my armor?"

"Ah, yes. I've redressed you in something more period-appropriate—"

"Where is it?"

"You see, Arthur, in the future, people don't wear armor around—"

_"Where is my armor?"_

Freya frowns deeply. "… Are you even listening to me?"

"Are you even listening to me? I asked you where my armor was."

"I put it away."

" _Why?_ "

Freya sighs, not wanting to repeat herself. "People don't wear armor anymore. You'll cause a scene."

"That's ridiculous. Why would people stop wearing armor?"

"It's just not needed," says Freya's exasperated voice once more.

"What, do people not get attacked anymore?"

Freya's face twists in pain. "Well… I mean… they _do_ , but—"

"Aha!" Arthur exclaims.

Freya closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and Arthur grins. "You know what?" she says eventually. "I don't even care anymore. You can have your damn armor. People can think you're some kind of medieval times nerd, for all I care."

She waves a hand, and a pile of armor appears on the ground in a shower of gold sparkles. Arthur's so pleased he barely notices the magic. He licks his lips and reaches for the chain-mail… then stops.

"Wait."

"What is it now?" Freya groans.

"Where's Excalibur?"

"You… can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"You can't have a sword! People don't carry around swords anymore."

Arthur decides he doesn't like this future one bit. The only redeeming part is that Merlin's in it.

"But I need it! I'm King Arthur. And Excalibur's my sword. That's how it is."

Freya actually smiles to herself, some joke she's not sharing.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just, you're more right than you know."

"So you'll give me my sword?"

Arthur's growing impatient, but Freya's standing firm. "No."

He turns his back on her, crosses his arms. "Well, that's unfortunate. Because I was under the impression that you needed my help."

Freya is silent for a long time. Finally, she slowly says, "Are you implying that, if I don't give you your _sword_ , you are not going to help save _Albion_?"

"That's right."

"You know, what he said about you… Merlin wasn't lying."

Arthur whips around, curious. "What did he say?"

"That you were a prat."

Arthur purses his lips; Merlin really had to stop badmouthing him to everyone that he'd met.

Freya waves her hand again and, finally, a sword falls into existence on top of the pile of armor. Arthur picks it up, grinning uncontrollably, and notes with satisfaction that the blade is still perfectly balanced.

He takes a few practice swings, and Freya waves a finger at him. "Now, you're not allowed to stab _anyone_."

"Anyone? But what if they're attacking me?"

"No! Not even if they're attacking you. You are not allowed to stab anyone."

Arthur shrugs. A future full of people who don't wear armor and don't carry swords? There probably isn't anyone worth stabbing in the first place.

He puts down the sword and reaches for the armor. The chain-mail is awkward in his hands; he'd always been useless at dressing himself. He turns to Freya. "I don't suppose there's any chance you could…"

"No." Well, he'd seen that one coming. He buckles everything up sloppily, figuring he'll have Merlin redo it later.

Freya quickly ushers him to the shore of the island where a small rowboat is tied to the dock. "Come on, let's go. You've wasted enough time already."

He steps onto the deck unsteadily. He'd say he feels nervous, but, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot does not ever feel _nervous_. He's just… apprehensive, that's all.

He stands in front of the boat, but doesn't move. Freya raises her eyebrows, nods her head toward the boat.

He still doesn't move.

"Get in!"

Well, someone clearly wants to get rid of him.

"So, Merlin…?"

Freya sighs. "You're hopeless. He'll be waiting for you on the other side of the lake. I sent him an email a few days ago, telling him about the date and time of your arrival."

"… A what?"

"Just get in the boat. He'll be there."

Arthur's face lights up, and he willingly steps into the boat. Freya utters a few words from another language under her breath, and he begins to float away.

"And good riddance," she mutters, after Arthur's floated a few meters.

"I heard that!" he shouts, but nothing can dampen his mood now.

As the boat sails itself across the lake, Arthur imagines he cuts a dashing figure, the morning breeze rustling his hair, the sunrise reflecting off his armor, his stature tall and regal. The boat hits the sand, and as he steps off the boat to the shore, he revels in the moment. This is a grand beginning, a beginning of the new age of the Once and Future King. Arthur Pendragon has returned to the land of the living, and he will, with the assistance of his knights and an inept manservant, bring peace and order back to the land of Albion…

… speaking of inept manservants, Arthur looks around, and his surroundings are empty.

"Merlin?" he shouts, peering through the trees. But Freya had said Merlin would be waiting for him. Where is he? " _Mer_ lin!" Arthur shouts even louder, and it's almost like it used to be, whenever Merlin wouldn't bring him enough breakfast or sorted his clothing wrong.

But there is no response.

"Oh, hell," Arthur mutters.

* * *

Arthur continues to shout Merlin's name for several more minutes, until he hears the sound of footsteps approaching from the woods.

"About time," he grumbles.

However, it's not Merlin who emerges from the trees, but a middle-aged man wearing the most bizarre clothing. The man's pants, if you could call them "pants," only extend to mid-thigh length, and his shirt lacks sleeves. No protection whatsoever. If Arthur pulled out his sword and attacked the man, it would all be over in a matter of seconds. In fact… perhaps he should pull out his sword, teach this man a lesson about correct outerwear, but he remembers Freya's words, and he decides against it.

"Greetings, stranger!” He steps in front of the man, making sure the seal of Camelot on his sleeve is clearly visible.

"Er, hello."

"My name is Arthur Pendragon," he pauses and decides to leave out the King part. In his experience, it tended to intimidate commoners and cause them to treat him differently, something he doesn't want if he needs information. "I request your assistance."

“Um,” replies the man, looking extremely confused. He doesn’t seem to recognize the seal of Camelot or Arthur’s name. “Okay?”

Arthur isn't quite sure what that word means, but he forges ahead. “Have you seen a man named Merlin? About my height, my age, dark hair and very large ears?" He pauses, considers the timeline. " _Or_ … a man named Merlin, my height, very old… but also very large ears?"

"Merlin?" the man laughs. "I don't know anyone with a name like that, and I'd certainly remember if I did. And I've been jogging around these woods this whole morning, but I haven't seen anyone who fits either of those descriptions. Sorry, man."

If Merlin isn't in the area, it means he isn't running late. So where is he? Injured? Dying? Or perhaps just horrifically tardy? That's always a possibility when it comes to Merlin. Too many questions, and only one thing is certain: Arthur is on his own, for now. That won't be a problem of course. Arthur can handle himself for long enough until Merlin can get himself together and come find him.

"Could you please direct me to the nearest tavern?" Arthur asks.

"Uh, I guess, there's an inn in town. Boar's Head Inn. Walk down that trail until you get to the road, and the road’ll take you into town.”

Arthur thanks the man and follows his directions down to the road, which, as he finds out, is paved with some smooth substance that is certainly not cobblestones, and which is overrun by large, metal boxes that hurtle forward at high speed. It is at this point that he realizes his vision of the future may be a bit off.

* * *

The inn is far, far cleaner than any inn he’d ever stayed at in his time, but it still manages to set him at ease. Something familiar, finally. The interior is all dark wood, and a fireplace crackles in the corner.

The elderly woman at the bar looks up at him as he approaches and gives him a friendly smile. “Ah, is there another one of those costume conventions in town? You look great, you know, sonny.”

And now he understands why Freya had been reluctant to give him his armor. Everyone he’d seen on the road on the way here was wearing clothes completely different from his, and they’d given him odd looks, as well. Regardless, he’d obviously made the right decision. The added protection from frontal and rear attacks is certainly worth a few odd looks from strangers.

“Er, yes,” Arthur says, not bothering to argue, “that is correct. I am also looking for someone. His name is Merlin.”

“Ohhhh, I’ve got it,” the woman says. She points an excited finger at his chest. “You’re King Arthur, eh?”

Amazing! The woman recognizes him. His legacy had lived on for over a thousand years. He’d assumed that he’d been long forgotten after no one on the street had shown any recognition, yet here it was. Arthur’s lips curl into a smile. To be remembered for millennia after death, that perhaps was the greatest achievement. And it could be useful as well. Perhaps he could use his notoriety to assemble a small group of people to help him look for Merlin.

“Yes! I am King Arthur Pendragon. I—”

“You know, I used to _love_ the stories when I was a little girl. Read them every night. And then when my father finally broke it to me that the stories weren’t real and King Arthur never existed, I was gutted, you can’t imagine…”

“Never existed?! Listen, I’ll show you who’s never existed, you little—”

“Of course,” the woman continues, not listening, “maybe I probably should have known better considering the fact that magic doesn’t exist either, but hey I was just a tyke, you know.”

And now, not only does he not exist, but neither does magic. The idea makes him feel hollow. What had happened? He probably would have repealed the ban on magic had he survived; he owed Merlin that much. So had Guinevere never allowed magic? Or had a later ruler simply reinstituted the ban? Ironically, Arthur would have been quite overjoyed with this outcome in his younger years, but now… had Merlin been forced to live all these years with his magic kept secret? Again? He can’t imagine having to hide away a part of yourself, what it must be like to live a life half in the shadows.

“Anyway, sorry, I do tend to rattle on like that. Did you want something, dearie? A cuppa?”

Arthur forces his mind to get back to business. “No, I’m actually looking for someone. I think he might live around here. He’s about this tall, dark hair, large ears.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, dearie.”

“Um, he’s very gangly,” Arthur adds. “Limbs like toothpicks. Wears the same clothes every day.”

“Hm, I think I actually do see a lad like that around. He’s a regular at the chip shop ‘cross the street. You could try asking them.”

* * *

“Good morning!” the young man behind the counter greets cheerily. “How can I help—”

Already tiring of this search, Arthur gets straight to the point. “Merlin,” he says. “I am looking for a man named Merlin. Do you know him?”

“Merlin? Oh yeah, I know him.”

Arthur feels his heart starting to pound in his chest. Alright, now he’s getting somewhere.

“Does he live around here?”

“Yeah, he comes ‘round here all the time.” The man frowns uneasily. “Sorry, how do you know him?”

 _He’s my idiot manservant who can’t be on time to save his life_ , Arthur wants to say but doesn’t. Instead, he says, “He’s my friend. Do you know where he lives?”

The man grabs a bowl sitting on the counter and rummages through the small slips of paper in it. “Well, he left his card for the free lunch raffle the other day…” His hand closes around one the papers, but he doesn’t say anything else, just stares skeptically at Arthur.

“… Well?” Arthur snaps. “Do you know or not?”

“Sorry, how do you know him again?”

“I told you, he’s my friend,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.

“It’s just that, I feel like, if you were really his friend, you’d know where he lived…” Arthur takes a slow step closer to the man and his bowl, but the man holds the bowl closer to himself and scoots backward, eyeing Arthur all the way. “Are you stalking him or something?”

“What? No, I—”

“Look, I think everyone’s got the right to some privacy, alright? I don’t want you harassing Mr. Emrys; he’s a good customer of ours.”

Frustrated, Arthur puts his hands on his hips. “I’m not going to _harass_ him.” Actually, that’s a lie. Once he finds Merlin, he will probably harass him about a variety of subjects, including, but not limited to: the fact that Merlin failed to pick him up at the lake in a timely fashion, the fact that Merlin hid his magic from Arthur for years, and so on, and so on. But it will be… friendly harassment. And deserved. “I _command_ you to tell me his address.” Upon reflection, he realizes the “command” may not have been wise, but it’s force of habit.

The man’s face hardens in resolve. “No!” he declares.

Arthur can feel himself overflowing with frustration. After hours of wandering around in this godawful future, he is so close to finally finding Merlin. The only thing stopping him is this damned counter and this stubborn chip seller. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, and in the process, he remembers the sword hanging on his belt. Freya had made him swear not to stab anyone, but she hadn’t said anything about waving his sword in people’s faces and yelling threateningly at them…

* * *

They let him out of the police station a couple hours later with a “warning.”

“Damned kids these days,” he hears one of the officers mutter as he walks off. “So obsessed with their role-playing. Cause me enough trouble as it is.”

Lost and confused and having no idea where to go next, Arthur finds a bench by the side of the road and sinks down onto it, arms crossed. He knows Merlin lives in the area, but that still doesn’t narrow it down enough. He _could_ knock on every single door in the neighborhood and hope to get lucky. Or perhaps it would be more effective to just wait here and hope Merlin miraculously walks by at some point. Or should he return to the lake and wait there—

A young boy, maybe fifteen, plops down next to him on the bench.

“Nice costume,” he remarks.

Arthur glances at the boy, then resumes glaring straight ahead. “Thanks.”

“Didja make it yourself?”

He’s too tired to think about whether or not he should lie. “It was forged for me by the palace blacksmith.”

“Ah.” The boy swings his legs back and forth, scraping the bottom of his shoes on the pavement. “Why were you arrested?”

“I tried to stab someone who was bothering me,” Arthur says pointedly.

“Oh."

The boy then falls silent, and Arthur can feel his temple throbbing. Eventually, the boy starts talking again. “See, the thing is," he says, "I was walkin’ past the chip shop while you were in there, and I heard you were lookin’ for Mr. Emrys.”

Emrys. That was the name the horrible man at the chip shop had used to refer to Merlin. Arthur snaps to attention, sits up straight.

“You know him?”

“Mr. Emrys is my pal. So I wanted to know exactly what kind of business you have with him.” The boy puffs out his chest, perhaps attempting to appear threatening? Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“My name’s Arthur. I’m a friend of his.”

“S’funny. ‘Cause I’ve never seen you visit him. And I’ve never heard him talk about you.”

“I’m an _old_ friend, alright?” Arthur tries. He opens and closes his fists several times. He’s so close. “Would you _please_ just tell me where he lives?”

“Not until you tell me what you want with him.”

And Arthur’s had it. “Tell me right now! I am the king of—" The boy raises an eyebrow, and Arthur pauses, reconsiders. "—I am _dressed_ as the king of Camelot," he finishes weakly.

"The king of Camelot," echoes the boy. "Very interesting. That’s Arthur Pendragon, innit? You know Mr. Emrys always loves talking ‘bout Arthurian legends…"

The boy trails off, and Arthur snaps, "What? What is it?"

"Oh," says the boy, eyes wide. " _Oh_."

"What?"

"You're him, aren't you? You're him. Oh, he's been waiting for you for a looong time."

Arthur pauses. "He told you? About me?" He hasn't been in this future for long, but he's pretty sure that if Merlin were to tell somebody about how he's a centuries-old warlock waiting for the rebirth of a king, it wouldn't go over so well.

"No," the boy admits, "but you can tell. It's in the way he talks, the look in his eye. He's waiting for something, for someone. You."

Now, only now, does it occur to Arthur how long Merlin's been walking this earth alone, waiting for hundreds and hundreds of years for a day that might never come. It must have been insufferable.

And _then_ , Arthur looks up at the sky, and now it occurs to him how long _he's_ been waiting, which, according to the sun, seems to be around eight hours. If Merlin isn't dead or dying by the time Arthur finds him, there is going to be a lot of shouting.

"Just tell me where he is," Arthur begs impatiently.

The boy points down the street. “Third on the right. That little red cottage.”

* * *

Arthur knocks on the door and then realizes that he has no idea if this Mr. Emrys even is Merlin. For all he knows, Mr. Emrys could be some other big-eared, gangly-limbed prick, and then Arthur is no better off than he started. And the worst part is that absolutely none of this is his fault. He’s been thrust into this damned future where he does not belong without a single idea of how things work. The person who’s supposed to know how things work didn’t _show up_ —

The door opens, and it’s Merlin, looking not a day older than he did when Arthur last saw him. Arthur’s so relieved he thinks he could cry.

Merlin, slack-jawed, stares at Arthur for a second, then launches himself into Arthur, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck. Arthur forgets his anger and frustration for the time-being and simply hugs Merlin back. Merlin’s as bony as ever, his hip jutting into Arthur’s stomach, but he’s also so warm and so familiar that Arthur doesn’t mind, and he finds himself breathing deeply and relaxing into Merlin’s grip.

“Arthur!” Merlin exclaims into Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re early.”

 _Early? The nerve!_ Arthur steps back, out of the embrace. “ _I’m_ early? You’re late! Freya was practically shooing me out the door!”

Merlin frowns and scratches the back of his head. “I don't understand. Freya's email said to come at five… oh, I suppose she meant five in the morning. I must have just assumed she meant five in the afternoon, since there's absolutely no way of getting you up that early in the morning."

"Likely story.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “You assumed it wasn't five in the morning because _you_ didn't want to wake up that early. Which offends me.”

Merlin grins, but Arthur isn’t having it. “Honestly, Merlin, how often does your king return from the dead? Do you have any idea how long I have been wandering around this damn town? I got arrested! All because you couldn’t be bothered to—”

He’s interrupted by Merlin throwing his arms around him again. “I missed you so much, you prat. I’m glad you’re back.” Then Merlin pulls away. “Wait, did you say you got arrested?”

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone had this idea yet? Probably. Oh well. Concrit welcome!


End file.
